Bucky does not even bother to avert his eyes when Clint bends over to check under the couch for bugs. What? Guy’s got a great ass. He’s so focused on it, in fact, that he barely hears Clint talking, and comes to his senses only to catch the last part of the sentence.
“… I’m just sayin’.’ Clint’s voice is muffled due to his face half-pressed into the couch cushions as he kneels on the ground and sweeps his hand through the two inches of space between the couch and the carpeted floor of this shitty SHIELD-assigned apartment. “I wouldn’t put it past the fuckers to bug every room in this damn building, you know? And last thing I need’s for everything we say in here to be overheard.”
“Wouldn’t want that,” Bucky drawls, mentally thanking whoever is listening that he wasn’t caught not paying attention.
Clint, much to Bucky’s dismay, straightens and gets to his feet. “Well, no bugs under the couch, anyway,” he says, scratching lightly at his head. “That’s not to say there won’t be some anywhere else, though.”
Bucky shrugs. “I don’t doubt it.”
“Well, what are you sitting there for?” Clint asks him, his hand dropping to his side. “Come and help.”
And with that he turns to go into the only other room in this shit apartment. Bucky appreciatively watches him walk off, his eyes drawn to Clint’s bare legs and the way his ass looks under those ratty old boxers he’s wearing with a white t-shirt. He takes a moment to be thankful that Clint is the one SHEILD assigned as his partner for this mission, not just because Clint is one of the only few people he can actually tolerate for an extended amount of time, but also because – well, Clint’s quite easy on the eyes too, even with his general state of dishevelment and the number of bandages adorning him at any given point.
“Bucky!” Clint’s voice breaks him out of his lust-induced reverie. “Come help, lazy-ass!”
“All right, don’t get your panties in a bunch!” Bucky calls back, and with a grin on his face he can’t quite explain, follows Clint to the other room.
There are only two rooms in the apartment, both of them moldy as fuck and constantly damp. The kitchen tap drips, and the one in the bathroom always unleashes a torrent of suspiciously brown liquid before slowly giving way to clear, hopefully clean water. The flush on the toilet, disgustingly enough, serves only a cosmetic purpose, and doesn’t actually work. There is no hot water in the shower.
There is just one bed in the second room, and it looks moments away from falling apart. Bucky is almost afraid to even sit on it, let alone lie on it for hours to sleep. He’s not exactly the lightest of people, partly due to his metal arm but mostly because of his physique as well, and both things combined with Clint’s weight as well… Bucky is not going to be surprised if the bed caves in in the middle of the night and sends them crashing to the floor with its dirty-ass carpet that was once red and is now a faded, gross pink hue.
There’s also a huge spider web in the closet. Clint shrieked when he first saw it and jumped backwards on Bucky’s foot, and Bucky still snickers whenever he thinks of it. He ended up trapping the spider in a paper cup and putting it outside, all the while ignoring Clint’s whimpers at the sight of the huge web, the dead flies in it, and all the baby fucking spiders everywhere. In the end they just sprayed a metric fuckton of pesticide in there, closed the door tightly, and swore to each other not to open it ever lest the spider become radioactive and bite them in revenge. One Spiderman running around is quite enough, thank you very much.
Despite all of this, and the fact that Bucky can practically feel himself devolving as a human being the longer he spends in this apartment, he actually does not mind it all that much. It may be an absolute hell hole, but it’s a hell hole that he’s sharing with Clint Barton, and that automatically makes it better.
(It also has a lot to do with Clint’s penchant of running around in nothing but boxer shorts whenever he’s relaxed enough for it, which, surprisingly, is a significant amount of time.)
The mission itself is fairly straightforward; Bucky and Clint are supposed to use this apartment as a base, posing as a couple if anyone asks (though no one’s going to, since it’s not the kind of neighborhood where people feel the need to get to know their neighbors). Their job is to stake out the building next to theirs – specifically, the black market alien tech dealer who has been a thorn in Coulson’s side lately. Bucky’s not too sure on the specifics of the situation and quite frankly he does not care. His job is to shoot at whatever target Coulson points him towards, and that’s what he’s here to do. Clint has pretty much the same ideology when it comes to work, which is part of the reason they get along well on missions. Neither of them really give too much of a shit; they’re just here to earn their paycheck (hopefully one with an abundance of zeroes on it) and to shoot things.
“Find anything?” Bucky asks Clint as he wanders into the room, quite pleased to see Clint on all fours as he rummages under the bed. For a moment he’s tempted just to lean in the doorway and ogle Clint’s ass, since he doesn’t really feel inclined to work, but then he decides to join Clint, not wanting to make it look like he’s content to let Clint do all of the work and laze around himself.
“Yep.” Clint pops the p, and points to a couple of tiny, innocuous-looking things on the floor next to him. “These were in the wall behind the headboard. Told you they’re bugging us.” He sounds quite pleased with himself.
Bucky rolls his eyes even though Clint can’t see it. “They’ll notice the bugs are gone, though,” he points out as he gets on his hands and knees next to Clint, even though it’s quite pointless for them to be searching the same area. Whatever. Not like Bucky cares, he’s just not going to pass up a chance to be close to Clint.
“Nah,” Clint refutes. There is a pause as he locates another bug and pulls it out of its place, adding it to the pile next to him. “Coulson said his team’s done some weird tech mumbo-jumbo to block these little babies from transmitting, just for as long as it takes us to locate them all. Then they’re gonna, I dunno, replace the signal and transmit pre-recorded voices or I dunno, some shit like that. I kinda tuned out.”
Bucky snorts. “Of course you did.”
There’s silence for a few minutes as they both continue their search. Bucky’s hand brushes Clint’s accidentally-on-purpose a few times, and every time he murmurs an apology and moves it away, doing his best to make the movement seem natural. It’s weird, he reflects as he works, how all of this came to happen. Clint’s the last person he thought he could ever be able to tolerate, let alone end up developing a stupid little crush on. The guy’s a fucking mess, lives out of a coffee pot, owns a total of six shirts and two pairs of jeans, and has absolutely no brain-to-mouth filter. It’s a miracle he’s survived past his teenage years, it truly is. It’s an even bigger miracle he’s survived working as a superspy all these years – never mind the fact that, if all the stories are true, he’s good enough at it to be considered some kind of legend.
Steve had foisted Clint upon Bucky in the hopes that they could bond or some shit over both of them having been mindfucked by assholes, and Bucky hadn’t had the heart to refuse Steve and his damn puppy eyes, even when he thought that another poor traumatized bastard was the last person he needed around himself. Still, it’s not like he’s ever been able to say no to Stevie, so he ended up grudgingly agreeing and promising not to try to throw Clint off of any high structures. He had been expecting some mopey, broody asshole who just happened to be good with targets – much like himself, in all honesty – and so actually meeting Clint had been kind of a surprise.
Funny how much two poor traumatized bastards could bond while shooting shit in the training room. Steve, naturally, was over the moon about it. Tony made jokes, because that’s what Tony does. The rest of them displayed varying levels of indifference, except for Natasha, who told Clint she was going to be his best man at the wedding. Clint and Bucky had both scoffed at that, insisting they were just good ol’ pals, but now, Bucky thinks, he would not mind it so much if he and Clint were actually together.
Stupid fucking crush.
It’s a good thing Steve doesn’t know. He’d never shut up about it, and Bucky knows Tony wouldn’t either. Natasha would just be smug, because she’s horrible like that. The others would just continue being indifferent, he supposes, except maybe Thor, who might see it as a cause for celebration and whip out some more of his unnatural fucking Asgardian mead.
Then again, Bucky thinks a bit morosely, none of this really fucking matters, because Clint doesn’t know, and in any case, all they are is good ol’ pals, because Clint is an oblivious fucking idiot who has no idea when someone’s trying to get his attention, even if that person is as far from subtle as Clint is from having his shit together. If Clint hasn’t noticed the staring and the ogling and the gratuitous touching, there really is no hope for the guy.
Or for Bucky, because he’s kind of far gone on Clint and honestly at this point it’s getting ridiculous.
So for now, he is content to stare at Clint’s ass, and watch movies with him at his place as they indulge in pizza, and pet his dog and sleep on his couch and tell himself that he’s happy even with this miserable farce they’ve got going. Even that is a lot more than he ever thought he could achieve with someone who is not Steve, so he’s not going to ruin it by doing something stupid, no matter how kissable Clint’s mouth is or how fuckable the rest of him is.
“Done!” Clint declares, breaking Bucky out of the frankly depressing thoughts he’s having. Bucky looks up to see him clutching a bunch of wires, looking triumphant as he grins at his partner. “We are officially unbugged.”
Bucky gets to his feet. “You sure?”
Clint nods. “Yeah. Asked Coulson’s guy – Fitz – to check just in case. He says we’re all clear. Were you not listening?”
Bucky shrugs. “Was thinking something,” he answers vaguely. “And isn’t it Fitz-Simmons?”
“Nah, that’s two people, they’re inseparable so everyone just hyphenates their names like they’re already married,” Clint says. “What do you say we turn in now, huh? Got a long, exciting day ahead of us tomorrow, filled with adrenaline-inducing, high octane stuff like stakeouts and reporting.” He throws Bucky a dry, lopsided grin. “Should be fun.”
“Yay,” Bucky says, completely deadpan, and can’t help but smile when Clint laughs. He waits till Clint’s stopped, and then asks, “So do you want the bed or the couch? I’m okay with the couch just so you know.”
“My, what a chivalrous gentleman you are,” Clint comments, in a bad Southern accent, and it’s Bucky’s turn to laugh. That comes easier to him, he realizes absently. The laughing and the smiling. It just happens more naturally when Clint is around, to the point that it surprises even Bucky. That means something, maybe, he thinks.
“I’m serious, though,” he tells Clint, nodding towards the rickety old bed. “You can have it.”
“Thanks, but I’m fine on the couch too,” Clint tells him. “I’m terrified I’m gonna break the bed, not gonna lie.”
Bucky snorts at that. “Yes, and I’m so much lighter than you.”
Clint just shrugs. “Wanna toss for it?”
Bucky chooses heads – and loses, much to his chagrin. “Couch,” Clint says at once. “We can swap tomorrow night,” he adds in response to the look on Bucky’s face. “No need to be so anguished about it, man.”
“I’m not anguished,” Bucky retorts. “Forgive me for wanting you to be comfortable.”
“Aww, how sweet,” grins Clint. “Really though, don’t worry about me. It’s just a couch, man, I’ll be fine. What’s it gonna do, eat me up?”
Famous last words.
Bucky is woken in the middle of the night by the sound of muffled footsteps. Immediately alert, his hand slowly crawls under his pillow, fingers tightening around the handle of the knife he keeps under there. He tenses as the intruder draws closer, ready to attack—
“Bucky,” whispers Clint, his voice loud in the darkness and silence, and Bucky relaxes, releasing his grip on the knife.
“What?” he grunts, wondering what on earth would have Clint waking him up at this ungodly hour of the night.
Clint sighs, sounding frustrated. “Aww man, this is so fuckin stupid,” he mutters, mostly to himself. "Can I share with you?”
Bucky is moving over before he even thinks it through. His brain only processes the words when Clint gets into the bed next to him, the mattress dipping and the bedframe creaking ominously with the added weight, but by then it’s too late to refuse. So instead he asks, voice gruff with sleep, “Everything okay?”
“There was a really big fucking spider,” Clint tells him, tossing and turning until he’s comfortable. He finally settles on his side, facing Bucky, and tugs the blanket over so that it’s covering both of them. “In the couch. It got on the blanket so I had to leave it and run.”
“Clint,” sighs Bucky. “It’s just a spider.”
“It’s evil,” Clint tells him at once, narrowing his eyes. “If you think it’s so harmless, feel free to have the couch.”
Bucky sighs again. “You’re such a drama queen.”
“Whatever, Cyborg Diva.”
Anyone else would have earned a punch at that nickname, but because it’s Clint and he’s never really malicious, Bucky just rolls his eyes. “Cute,” he comments. “Do you also want me to hold your hand and sing you to sleep?”
“Fuck off, Barnes,” Clint mumbles, already sounding half-asleep. “And keep your arm away from me, shit’s cold.”
In response to that, Bucky, feeling suddenly impish, turns over to his side and pokes Clint with his metal fingers, eliciting a yelp. “Fucking— Barnes!”
Bucky snickers, the sound echoing oddly in the mostly empty room. “Not so funny now, are you?”
“You’re a meanie,” Clint accuses him, toeing him in the calf. “If you do that again I’ll kick you off.”
“You can try,” Bucky tells him. There’s a brief silence, during which Bucky wonders why Clint is not answering him in a similarly childish manner, broken a few seconds later by the sound of Clint’s breaths getting slower and deeper, his movements ceasing as he dozes off.
Amazing, truly amazing, thinks Bucky dryly as he closes his own eyes to go back to sleep. This is the person he has a crush on. Wow.
The first thing Bucky is aware of in the morning is that, to his utter mortification, he’s rock hard. The second thing, to his overwhelming relief, is that Clint is not in the bed.
He sits up and makes sure his lap is covered with the sheets, mentally willing his erection to subside so he can get out of bed and resume his life pretending it never happened. He can hear Clint in the other room, complaining at someone, presumably on the phone – Bucky catches an annoyed “Aww, Coulson, no!” more than once, along with “I really, really hate you all, and also I want a pay raise.”
Bucky really wants to get out of bed and go ask what’s up – nothing that has Clint talking in a tone like that can mean well – but his hard-on still refuses to go down and there is no way he can go to the bathroom to take care of it without Clint seeing. Last thing he needs right now is for Clint to realize that Bucky sprouts boners just by being in proximity with him.
Hurriedly he begins thinking of things that have the potential to turn him off, starting from memories of his Great-Aunt Mabel, that old fucking crone (he wouldn’t be surprised to hear she’s still alive). He doesn’t have to do more than imagine her barging in on him in his current state, wizened and so wrinkled she looks like a crumpled piece of paper more than a person, and still managing to be astonishingly agile even without the help of a walking stick. She would probably start barking at him about how he’s going to go to hell or some shit, and just that thought is more than enough to wilt Bucky’s boner, and probably destroy his sexual appetite entirely for the foreseeable future. (Great-Aunt Mabel tended to have that effect on everyone around her, that old bitch.)
Clint comes in the room just as Bucky is getting out of the bed, and reflexively Bucky moves to cover his crotch just in case, even though there’s nothing to worry about now. Hoping he’s not going to do something stupid like blush, Bucky looks up at Clint’s irritated expression and asks, “What’s up? I heard you talking to Coulson.”
“How do you know it was Coulson?” Clint asks, momentarily distracted. “Oh, right, super hearing,” he answers his own question.
Bucky just shrugs. He’s trying very hard not to look at Clint, who looks especially and un-fucking-fairly good for someone who’s just rolled out of bed. It’s the sex hair, probably. Or, to be technical, the bedhead masquerading as sex hair, but it’s not exactly a leap for Bucky to imagine how Clint’s hair would look right after sex.
He needs to stop thinking about Clint and sex in the same vein, lest his boner make an unwelcome reappearance.
“…some fucking fancy-ass party,” Clint is saying when Bucky tunes back into the conversation, eyes firmly fixed on Clint’s face and nowhere else. “I told him we’re in the world’s shittiest apartment – and coming from me that’s saying something, I mean for fuck’s sake, have you seen my own apartment – but he’s like—” Clint pulls a face and speaks in a tone eerily similar to Coulson’s, “‘Change in a location away from the apartment and you should be fine’, and I told him that’s stupid too because what the fuck would we even change into? He didn’t tell us there’s some fucking party, so we didn’t bring suits. It was just supposed to be surveillance for fuck’s sake!”
There is a moment of silence; Bucky tries to process the profanity-laden monologue and Clint takes deep breaths, clearly trying to get his shit together. Then Bucky says, almost on impulse (but not entirely), “You haven’t had coffee, have you.”
It’s not a question, but Clint nods in answer anyway. “Woke up to that call,” he mutters, crossing his arms and sinking down dramatically on the bed Bucky just vacated, eliciting a protesting creak from the bedframe. “I’m gonna be having words with Coulson when we get back.”
“Not his fault if some intel comes in a bit late,” Bucky says mildly, locating his shoes from last night and pulling them on, before grabbing a hoodie. “Come on,” he tells Clint. “You can bitch at me over breakfast.”
“You’re buying,” Clint says, brightening almost immediately. It’s a little comical, and also a little endearing.
Bucky snorts. “No I’m not.” Of course he is. But it’s gonna look a bit weird if he doesn’t put up a little token protest.
“Yes you are,” Clint informs him, hopping on one leg as he tries to put on his socks and sweatpants at the same time.
Bucky sighs in a very put-upon manner. “Guess I am,” he acquiesces. “Come on now, let’s get you your caffeine fix.”
Clint tells him all about Coulson’s phone call over waffles and coffee, gesticulating wildly with his cutlery and almost taking Bucky’s eye out on more than one occasion (good thing for Bucky’s reflexes, because Clint does not even seem to notice). From what Bucky understands, the arms dealer they were supposed to be surveilling is hosting some fancy black-tie event to impress would-be customers or whatever, and Coulson thinks it would be a good idea for Bucky and Clint to get in on that and get a closer look at him without seeming too suspicious.
“Uh,” Bucky says when Clint is finished. “I don’t know if Coulson’s noticed, but.” He holds up his metal arm. “This does not exactly blend in.”
Clint shrugs. “Tell them you lost your arm in a horrible train accident. It’s not even a lie.”
“The missing arm isn’t the issue,” Bucky points out. “The fact that the prosthetic is highly advanced tech is. First thing anyone thinks when they look at it is ‘Stark’, and that’s not gonna help us at all in this situation.”
There is another silence as Clint thinks this over, chewing pensively on his waffles. “Coulson’s got that fancy prosthetic too, doesn’t he,” he finally says. “The one that looks real. Maybe you can, I dunno, get one of those for the party.”
“Can they get one customized for me by tonight?” Bucky asks drily.
Clint shrugs. “I dunno, maybe. Fitz is really competent at his job.”
“No harm in asking, I guess,” Bucky decides after a moment. Then he asks, “What do you do when you need to hide your hearing aids?”
“I ask Tony,” Clint says after a long swallow of his disgustingly bitter coffee that’s slowly destroying Bucky’s olfactory nerves with the smell of it. “Well, not really,” he amends. “Tony just makes them for me without my having to ask, because he may be an asshole but he’s also an angel.”
“And you trust him?” Bucky asks. “With – with your hearing aids?” The concept of trusting anyone with his arm is foreign to him, almost inconceivable. Strangely enough – or not, depending on how you look at it – the idea feels invasive, like a violation, even. Like he’s giving up control over all of himself once again.
He adds another point to his ever-growing mental Fuck Hydra list.
“Well, yeah,” Clint says in answer to his question, like it’s obvious. “I trust him more than anyone else when it comes to tech. He knows what he’s doing, and y’know, he actually genuinely likes making shit for us. He’s like the tech-savvy group mom everyone wishes they had.”
Bucky snorts at that. “Okay then,” he says. “Who’s group dad, then?”
“Steve, of course,” Clint says promptly, and Bucky chokes on his waffles. He manages a laugh when he’s cleared his airway again, and then Clint grins at him, and Bucky’s heart jumps in his chest, and fuck, it almost hurts to think of how long it’s been since he’s actually laughed and meant it.
Funny, he reflects absently, that it should happen in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowheresville, in an old sunlit diner with the most unlikely person he could ever have imagined. The airy sensation in his chest feels, shockingly, like – well, not happiness, but a strange kind of content. I could live with this, he thinks, as he watches Clint grin into his coffee.
Bucky takes a leap of faith and sends Fitz-Simmons the schematics for his prosthesis once they’re back in the apartment, and sure enough, seven hours later, it arrives in the hands of what looks like a very harried intern. She doesn’t even wait long enough for Bucky to say thanks, just thrusts the suspiciously light package into his arms at the door and leaves, like being even a second behind on schedule will cause her whole life to come crashing down.
“Damn,” says Clint in amusement from behind Bucky as Bucky closes and locks the door. “She seems busy.”
Bucky shrugs. “Whatever. Let’s try this on then, see if it works.”
The package doesn’t actually contain a whole prosthesis, however – Bucky and Clint open it to find a kind of skin-colored sleeve that’s supposed to fit over his metal arm. Bucky holds it up in the light and squints at it – it’s translucent, and looks and feels just like real skin, right down to the artificial veins and arteries just visible through the material. In fact, it’s kind of gross.
Clint, evidently, disagrees. “That is cool,” he declares excitedly, carefully taking the sleeve from Bucky and running his hand over it. “And not a bad idea, honestly, this way you blend in, and you don’t have to adapt to a new arm that you’re not used to. Fitz-Simmons are fucking geniuses.”
“Bet you $20 Stark is gonna be mad he didn’t think of it first,” Bucky says, taking it back from Clint and pulling it on. It looks a little loose at first but then immediately shrinks so that it’s covering his arm entirely, and when Bucky extends his arms and wiggles his fingers, for a moment, it feels like he’s got his actual arm back.
“Nah,” Clint says, closely observing the arm. “I bet you 20 bucks they got the idea from him.”
“You’re on,” Bucky says mildly, and then, seized by a sudden idea, reaches out and touches Clint’s face. Clint starts at the unexpected contact, but then relaxes, watching Bucky closely.
The miraculous thing about touching Clint with his metal arm is that Bucky can actually feel it, can feel the stubble under his fingers, the edge of Clint’s lip, the warmth of his skin. They’re not just data input into his arm and processed by his brain – it feels like there is actual nerve tissue relaying the message to his brain, that, after so long, Bucky’s completely real again.
Clint, for his part, just continues looking at Bucky, his lips slightly parted, something uncertain dancing in his eyes. And Bucky knows that in this moment if he were to lean in and kiss Clint Barton, he would not be spurned. Clint would kiss him back, enthusiastically even, and it would be everything he’s ever wanted.
And, he thinks dully as he takes his hand off Clint’s face, then he would fuck it up somehow, and he would lose Clint entirely.
“Bucky…” Clint begins, for once no trace of humor in his voice.
“You should drink more water,” Bucky interrupts, turning away and heading into the bathroom just to avoid Clint. “Your skin’s kinda dry.”
“Gee, thanks, asshole,” Clint murmurs under his breath. Bucky pretends he didn’t hear it, and slams the door after him so hard it almost splinters.
There is an awkward silence ruling over the apartment after that. It’s as if their easy camaraderie and smiles and banter never existed in the first place. Clint goes through his weapons in silence, and Bucky quietly goes over the plan in his head, and when it’s time to go, in complete silence they take their suits and their gear and leave the apartment, heading to a remote location to change.
“You ready?” Bucky asks abruptly as they’re about to enter the party.
Clint just nods curtly, adjusting his cufflinks one last time. “Let’s go,” is all he says, and as he walks arm-in-arm with Bucky into the party, Bucky thinks miserably on how he’s already gone and fucked it up. Didn’t even get a kiss out of the deal, either.
The party is in full swing when they enter, their SHIELD-given fake invitations getting them through without any problems. Bucky contemplates splitting up to find the dealer faster, but Clint vetoes the idea, rightfully pointing out that since they’ve come as a couple it would look weird if they were seen mingling separately. Bucky represses the urge to scream, because Clint’s hand in the crook of his real elbow is driving him up the fucking wall, and instead agrees with minimal fuss.
“What’s with you anyway?” Clint asks suddenly some time later, his eyes on the crowd as they stand in one of the balconies overlooking the hall, taking complete advantage of the better vantage point.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Bucky answers after a short pause.
Clint snorts. “Yeah, right.”
There is a pause as Bucky considers how to deal with this. He can hardly tell Clint the truth, not here, not now, not like this. And he can hardly pretend that everything is fine, not when they were having what Stark would refer to as a Moment and he went and completely shat all over it.
Silence, then, seems the safest option.
“Oh, that’s good,” mutters Clint when Bucky doesn’t answer him. “Back to stoic and broody, are we? Okay, then.”
And, to Bucky’s disappointment, he pulls his hand from Bucky’s arm. Before he can protest (something along the lines of keeping up appearances) Clint turns his back on Bucky and walks away, his shoulders set in determination. A few minutes later, he’s vanished into the crowd down below and Bucky can no longer make him out in the sea of people.
“Fucking great,” he groans to himself. “Go ahead, Barnes, drive away the one friend other than Stevie that you managed to make. Good shit.”
A clear, high laugh makes him turn around, immediately tensing up. A woman in a low-cut red dress with a slit up one thigh is standing next to him, toying with the empty champagne glass in her hand. She gives him a scarlet smile. “Do you do that a lot, then? Talk to yourself?”
Bucky just grunts under his breath, not bothering to reply as he turns back to the balcony and the crowd below.
Undeterred, she goes on. Her accent is French, her voice honey over sandpaper.
“What are you doing up here alone? Where’s your date?”
Bucky sighs internally. “Bathroom,” he says shortly.
Her shrug makes her mountain of blond hair wobble dangerously on top of her head. “Oh well, mind if I keep you company while he’s away, then?”
He shrugs noncommittally. She takes it as assent and moves closer, turning when she’s next to him and looking down towards the crowd as well. “Vince really threw a good ball, didn’t he?” she observes, clearly not put off by her awful conversational partner. “Must be trying really hard to impress his clients.”
Bucky perks up, though imperceptibly. “Excuse me?” he says, feigning polite curiosity.
“Oh, you know.” She waves a manicured hand about. “He’s got the good stuff this year, but no one’s willing to buy it because no one wants to get into the trouble it will inevitably bring from just about everyone. If he doesn’t impress anyone, he’s stuck with it and that’s going to cost him a lot of money.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bucky says after a short pause, even as his mind turns over the information. He hopes that Clint is paying attention to his comm unit.
“Sure you do,” she laughs, unconvinced. “Everyone who’s here knows what’s up. The innocent act won’t get you far, here.”
Bucky has nothing to say to that, so he just focuses extra hard on the crowd and tries to find Clint.
“Anyway,” the woman goes on, long nails tapping against the balustrade, “whether he makes the deal or not, he’s not going to be leaving empty-handed tonight, is he? Not when he’s got some other chips to barter with. Might even get his money’s worth back at the end of the night anyway, you know.”
“How so?” Bucky asks.
She shrugs again, and this time a curl comes loose and hangs about her face. “Well, let’s just put it this way – some things he was hoping for have happened.”
The statement sets off alarm bells in Bucky’s mind. “What do you mean?” he asks, turning away from the crowd to narrow his eyes at her.
“Surely you’re not serious,” she laughs. “Why, I mean you and your partner, of course! Here you are, against all odds – SHIELD might as well have gift-wrapped and sent you! Did you really think we would not know who you are? Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” she adds when she sees Bucky’s hand going towards his gun. “Not if you want your partner to live.”
“What the fuck – Clint?” Bucky says into his comm. “Clint, are you there? Clint!”
There is no reply, just deafening silence.
The woman sighs.
“Well, I hate to be cliché, but.” She holds out her arm and smiles beatifically at Bucky, who can only stare at her as his mind tries to process what’s happening. “Come with me if you want him to live. And no funny business, please, because at the first sign of trouble your partner’s going to find himself meeting his maker.”
“Touch him and I’ll kill you all,” Bucky promises her, smiling through his teeth as he takes her arm and lets her lead him off who knows where.
They emerge on the rooftop ten minutes later, having taken some convoluted route involving a lot of stairs and more than three fire exits. And all the while she holds on to Bucky’s arm like they’re just lovers sneaking off to make out in a dark corner where they won’t be disturbed, while Bucky represses the urge to throw her off and maybe break a couple bones, knowing that just one word from her can ensure Clint’s death.
God, how did it get to this? They should never have split up. They wouldn’t have, if he wasn’t such a fucking idiot. He wishes there was some way to go back in time and ensure it never happened, or, barring that, to fix it in the present.
That requires saving Clint’s shapely ass, first.
“I’ve got him,” the woman calls out into the night as they open the door leading to the rooftop.
“Good,” comes a gruff voice, and a moment later the arms dealer they’ve been tailing comes into view, dressed immaculately in an Armani suit and looking no less of an asshole for it. Bucky’s eyes immediately search the vicinity for any sign of Clint, and to his alarm, find none.
“Where is he?” he demands, earning himself a laugh from both his adversaries.
“I don’t know, honestly,” shrugs the arms dealer – Vince. “It’s not him we’re after. Just namedropped him as bait, and Jesus, I still can’t believe you fell for it.”
It takes Bucky a moment to process this – they don’t have Clint – and then he breaks free of the woman’s hold and lunges, metal arm aimed for Vince’s throat. Vince dodges and uses Bucky’s own momentum against him, grabbing his arm and twisting it. He’s got the advantage only for a moment, however – he is no match for Bucky’s strength, and a short scuffle later Bucky has his arm around Vince’s throat from behind, slowly cutting off his air.
Vince struggles feebly only for a moment, and then gives up, clearly understanding he’s not going to be coming out of this in one piece if he keeps up resistance. The woman, who hasn’t reacted all this while, now has a gun trained on both of them, aimed for Bucky’s head. “Let him go,” she demands, all trace of serenity vanishing. “I’ll shoot you, I swear it.”
Bucky just snorts, not giving her threat much credence. He’s faced much worse and come out on top. “Don’t bother, sugar,” he drawls. “Just tell me what you want from me.”
“I’m not—” begins the woman, but clearly Vince has other plans; without wasting a moment further he interrupts her.
“The arm,” he says, voice heavy with resignation. “Can you imagine how rich it would make me, if I managed to get a hold of it?”
“Don’t care,” says Bucky shortly. “Why are you interested, anyway? It’s not alien tech.”
Vince shrugs, the movement restricted by Bucky’s hold on him. “Nothing wrong with expanding one’s horizons.”
To that, Bucky just rolls his eyes. “You’re lucky I haven’t murdered your dumb ass right here and now,” he mutters. “Really,” he adds to the woman, who’s still aiming at his head, “I’d put that down if I were you.”
“No,” she declares. “Not until you let him go.”
Then several things happen at once.
Clint comes barreling out of the shadows, ICEr already out and aiming for Vince. His explosive arrival distracts the woman, whose aim wavers long enough for Clint to shoot Vince and knock him out cold. Not in the mood to support an arms dealer’s dead weight, Bucky drops him and leaps over his still form, heading for the woman.
She’s much stronger than she appears; ducking out of Bucky’s reach, she aims a kick at Clint’s hand that knocks the ICEr loose, before grabbing him by the shirt and tossing him around like he weighs no more than a rag doll. He hits the railing with a hard thud that makes Bucky wince internally just to hear it, but before Bucky can go over to him the woman is coming at him, gun back in her hand.
Her speed and agility are remarkable, almost superhuman, and it hits Bucky that she must be enhanced somehow, or else Inhuman. There’s no other explanation for the way she weaves and dips and ducks out of his reach, not deterred even when he manages to knock her gun out of her hand and kick it far out of her reach. The only other person he’s seen who can fight like this without some kind of enhancement is Melinda May.
He dodges a heavy blow aimed for his throat and ducks, only to see Clint come at her once more. The archer manages to get in a few solid blows before she grabs his arm and twists, eliciting a pained shout. The crunch of bones shattering sends a chill down Bucky’s spine – it’s quite one thing to do it to someone, and totally another to have it done to someone he cares about, in front of him.
“Fuck,” is all Clint manages to groan, before she heaves him up bodily – yep, definitely enhanced, and how she’s doing it all in high heels Bucky cannot for the life of him figure out – and throws him in the same direction as before. This time, however, instead of hitting the railing and going down, Clint goes over and out of sight.
“No!” yells Bucky, but he’s only taken two steps in that direction when she’s on him again. This time when he fights her he is no longer aiming to disable, just to kill. It’s different from when she was simply an accomplice to a target – now she’s just prey. It’s only a matter of time.
He ducks to dodge a jab to his eyes and grabs her ankle, upsetting her balance. She comes crashing down with more force than should be possible from a woman of her size and proportions, and before she can get up Bucky has Clint’s discarded ICEr trained on her.
“You are very lucky I got to this before I got to your gun,” he comments, and without waiting for a reply he shoots her.
He doesn’t even wait to see her crumple before racing over to the railing where he’d seen Clint go down. With every step he tries to brace himself for the possibility of finding Clint splattered down on the pavement ten stories below, while at the same trying to reassure himself that Clint’s a legendary spy and the best sharpshooter in the world, and has probably survived much worse.
Sure enough, to Bucky’s pervading and almost overwhelming relief, Clint is alive. He seems to have managed to catch the ledge with his uninjured arm, and is hanging on for dear life, grimacing as every movement jostles his fractured arm. “Thank fuck,” he groans when he sees Bucky. “Get me the fuck out of here.”
Bucky obliges, reaching down with his metal arm and grasping Clint’s, dragging him up and back over the railing in one fluid movement. He seems to have underestimated his own strength, however, and ends up tugging too hard, and Clint comes crashing into him, the two of them ending in a heap on the rooftop.
“Fucking hell,” groans Clint. “I hate that bitch.”
Bucky sighs. “They wanted my arm,” he tells Clint. “They told me they had you and if I didn’t come with them they’d kill you.”
“What?” Clint looks confused. “They never had me. I only knew you were up here on the rooftop when I checked the GPS from your comm. You were moving weirdly so I figured you must be in trouble, and came up here to save your ass.”
“But…” Bucky frowns. “I couldn’t see you anywhere. After you left.”
“I went to the bathroom,” Clint tells him.
The reason for Clint’s absence is so fucking ridiculous that Bucky can’t help but let out a short laugh. Without thinking about it he wraps both arms around Clint and pulls him closer. “That’s so fucking stupid,” he mutters, his breath ruffling Clint’s hair.
“You’re stupid,” Clint responds, just as mature as always.
“Wonderful comeback, Barton,” Bucky mumbles, resting his cheek on top of Clint’s head. He knows Clint is going to want to talk about this, or acknowledge it in some way – because, really, Clint’s the talking type as much as Bucky is, which is to say not at all – but Bucky doesn’t want to think about that right now. All he wants to do in this moment is to feel the warmth of Clint’s skin and know that he’s alive and (mostly) okay.
And of course, Clint chooses the worst possible moment in the world to make a snarky comment. Because of fucking course.
“Didn’t know you were a cuddler.”
Bucky rolls his eyes, though Clint can’t see it. “Shut up.”
There is a pause as Clint seems to be considering this response, and then, evidently deciding to just go with it, he relaxes and lets himself be held, practically melting into Bucky’s embrace. “Did you at least call for backup?” he mutters into Bucky’s shoulder.
“No. I’ll do that now.”
Before he can make a move, however, a faint whirring sound registers in his hearing and he frowns. “Do you hear that?”
Clint snorts. “Are you sure you should be asking the deaf guy that?”
“Shut up, I know you can hear just as well as anybody with those Stark aids in,” Bucky retorts, though without any heat. “Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if you had better hearing than most people.”
“Ruin my fun, why don’t you,” grumbles Clint. “And yes, I hear it.”
“More hostiles, do you think?” Though for the life of him he cannot think of where Vince might have acquired a flying contraption. Impossible for him to get it from SHIELD, and if he’s been making things out of stolen alien tech… well, then they have a bigger problem on their hands.
Which, if his pretty little minion really is enhanced, they probably do anyway.
“Nah,” Clint replies easily, not bothering to disentangle himself, and bit by bit Bucky relaxes too. “It’s Coulson and his new fancy Quinjet.”
Bucky narrows his eyes at where he thinks the Quinjet might be hovering, based on what he can hear of it. “Then why isn’t he showing himself?”
“Probably thinks it’s more fun to spy on us,” comments Clint, shifting to absently scratch at his ribs with his uninjured arm and then wincing when the movement jostles his other arm. “Damn, I really need to get this looked at.” He says it as if fractures are an everyday nuisance for him, like slow Wi-Fi or a phone with no battery. Considering his job, they probably are.
Bucky, finally tiring of trying to guess where the damn plane is, growls out, “Okay, Coulson, enough. You gonna help out or not?”
“What’s the magic word?”
Bucky scowls in the direction of Coulson’s mild, disembodied voice. “Fucking please.”
“Bastard,” mumbles Clint, as the Quinjet finally comes into view with a ripple of reflective panels. It lands on the rooftop so silently that if Bucky didn’t have enhanced hearing he would not have heard even the softest click.
Coulson emerges from the slowly opening door with his usual mild-mannered grin on his face. “Hello,” he greets. “Mission go well, I presume.”
“Spectacular,” Clint informs him, finally untangling his limbs from Bucky’s and trying to get to his feet from where they’re still sitting leaning against the railing. “Please tell me you have medical in there,” he groans, cradling his broken arm to his chest.
“There’s first aid,” Coulson supplies, shoving his hands into his pockets as two agents emerge from the Quinjet and begin hauling Vince and his minion’s unconscious bodies off. “And Agent Simmons can take a look at it when we’re back to base.”
“Why Simmons?” asks Bucky, surprised. “Why not an actual medical doctor?”
“Got a prototype she’s working on,” Coulson tells them as they walk towards the Quinjet, Clint leaning into Bucky’s side even though he doesn’t really need the support (and Bucky’s not about to point that out or complain). “Something about regrowing natural bone in a fraction of the time it would normally take.”
“Fuck,” groans Clint. “I hate it when you guys experiment on me.”
Coulson just grins at him, before turning to Bucky. “How was the arm?”
“Oh.” Bucky’s forgotten all about it until now. He holds his prosthetic arm up. “Fine, I guess. Works pretty good, but I think I prefer my metal arm.”
Coulson shrugs. “That’s up to you. Though Fitz-Simmons will be glad to know it works. They’ve been going on about it ever since they got the idea from Stark.”
At that, Clint elbows Bucky with his good arm and grins widely. “You owe me twenty bucks, big guy. Pay up.”
Scowling, Bucky extracts $20 from his wallet and hands it over. “Did you have to mention that,” he mutters to Coulson, who just smiles in that maddening way of his, like he’s privy to some secret that no one else will ever find out.
“Speaking of bets,” he says casually some time later, when they’re in the air and Bucky’s splinting Clint’s arm, “I think you two just won Simmons a large amount of money.”
“How?” Clint asks, confused, before his expression morphs into pain as Bucky accidentally applies too much pressure. “Watch it, Bucky!”
“Sorry,” mutters Bucky, finishing up and letting go of Clint’s arm before taking the seat next to his. “You good?”
Clint nods. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Bucky just shrugs. “It’s nothing.”
“That’s how,” Coulson interjects. He’s been watching the whole exchange with an expression of interest on his face, like they’re a fascinating puzzle he’s trying to solve.
Both agents frown at him, perplexed. Coulson, as usual, just fucking grins. “There was a betting pool,” he explains. “On when you two would get together. Simmons said it would be the next time either of you got sent on a mission together. Looks like she was right. Though,” he adds, acting oblivious to the stunned expressions on Bucky and Clint’s faces, “looks like Mack might win too, he bet on it being when one of you gets injured.”
Clint just sighs and shakes his head. “Did everyone know about this?” he grumbles.
“Pretty much,” Coulson says happily. “You two are not very subtle.”
“Excuse me?” retorts Bucky. He is very subtle. His whole job is about subtlety.
Coulson ignores him, humming some ridiculous pop song under his breath as he taps out coordinates into a touchscreen panel in the cockpit. Bucky watches him for a while, trying to formulate a witty comment or something, but gives up when he can’t and turns to Clint. “I can’t believe they were betting on us,” he says, tone echoing his disbelief.
“I can,” Clint replies morosely, leaning his head sideways on Bucky’s shoulder. “They’ll bet on just about anything. What I’m more worried about is whatever Simmons is gonna do to my arm.”
“Don’t worry,” Bucky says after a moment. “I’ll hold your hand.”
Clint snorts. “Good to know chivalry isn’t dead.”
“I’m the most chivalrous fella ever, just ask Stevie,” Bucky retorts, aware of the silly little grin forming on his face and not doing a thing to stop it. This is… it’s nice. The banter and teasing. It’s good to have it back.
“Don’t need to,” Clint answers. There’s a short pause, in which Coulson pretends he’s not eavesdropping. Then Clint speaks again. “So. Is this a thing now?”
Bucky pretends not to know what he’s talking about. “What?”
“Us,” clarifies Clint.
“Oh.” Bucky considers it, but only for a second. “Yeah. I guess so. Be warned, though,” he adds. “I’m probably gonna fuck it up at some point.”
“So?” Clint makes an abortive movement towards a shrug. “I’m no bed of roses either. Neither of us are normal, Barnes. But we don’t have to be to make this work.”
“Guess you’re right,” Bucky replies after another short silence, surprising even himself. “As long as we know where we’re at with each other.”
“Yeah,” agrees Clint. “I’m willing to try, you know. If you are.”
“I am,” confirms Bucky. “I’ll do the whole nine yards too, if you want. Dinner and dates and shit. What do you think?”
Clint smiles. Bucky can feel it against his skin where Clint’s cheek is resting on his real shoulder, even through the material of his dress shirt. “I think pizza and Netflix at my place whenever we’re done with this.”
“It’s a date,” says Bucky simply.